


Five times I said "I love you"

by popup_potato



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9321041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popup_potato/pseuds/popup_potato
Summary: Ok so first post, aw yeah. It's actually a lil something I wrote ages ago, but edited and fixed up a little. If you spot any mistakes, typos, whatever - please let me know, and I'll fix it! Tell me what you think, and apart from that, enjoy :DIt's a short one about Dave confessing his feelings for John, and John being a dismissive little shit trying to worm his way out it.Warning: There happens some non-consensual kissing.





	

“I love you.”

You say it like you are simply stating a fact, and you are. With a glance to your side, you see how the before calm, relaxed, and all in all comfortable expression John wore disappears just by the sound of those three simple words.

“I know,” he responds. He is talking clearly, and you cannot tell if that is a good sign or not. The atmosphere between the two of you change completely, and it is like the air just got heavier, filled up to the brim with an awkward silence. You do not know what to do with yourself. You have not known what to do with yourself for at least a year by now, and the last two months or so had taken your helplessness to a whole new level. You had become restless, unable to sleep as the thoughts in your head would not stop discussing this and that and then and there. And loudly too.

Not to mention how whenever you faced that pair of blue orbs your breath got stuck and would not do as supposed to. Sometimes you have felt weightless when watching him. It was either that, or an impossibly heavy weight settling on your shoulders. And now, as you are sitting here with him side by side and mindlessly watching TV, your thoughts are acting up again. You are so close to him you could just reach out and touch. You can, but you will not. There is no need to get too physical at the moment, as your own mentality is already troubling you enough as it is.

He wets his lips out of nervousness. One of the many things you have noticed about him. That cold beer he was taking sips of every now and then now stands half empty, half full, on the coffee table. Ignored. Just like your affections towards him. You are sure John has his own head running him over with a train of thoughts. You can tell by the way he furrows his eyebrows, his lips twitching down into a pout. There are so many things you know about this man, who is your friend and has been since childhood, and there are far too many things that you adore. You really are stupid.

You were so stupid as to fall in love with John Egbert.

You have told him, so that part of the ride was safely over with. Now, the only horror you faced was waiting for some kind of answer, and it is a slow burn. When you first told him, he had said nothing and just continued as normal.

The second time you told him he frowned, uncertain of the truth behind your words and left with a sceptical look on his face.

The third time you told him, he asked you if you were serious. You assured him that, yes, you were. And a whole lot at that. But his lips stayed shut, denying you any kind of closure.

The fourth time you told him, he stopped and listened. Asked why, how, when, and why. You answered truthfully, and yet he did not seem satisfied. Because he left with his answers, and you with none. And now here you are, the fifth time in trying to confess your love. To try and get John to answer, to give instead of take.

You set your can of beer on the coffee table, next to John’s, and in doing so casually moving just an inch closer and folding your arms, leaning back against the couch in your apartment and letting out a sigh.

“So,” you start and he offers you a single look from his position on the couch. “What do you say?”  
“I say this beer sucks. How old is it again?”  
“What.”  
“The beer. How old is the bee-”  
“No. Wait, what? No. John, what the fuck. I’m serious right now.”  
“And so am I. I’m not going to let you food poison me.”  
“It’s beer. Not food, dumbass.”  
“Same thing, smartass.”

You groan. God fucking damn it, he is doing it again. Trying to turn the subject. You are not going to let him get away with it this time. Shifting around a bit, you turn so that your back is resting against the armrest of the couch, sitting face to face with John then and glaring at him through dark lenses.

“John, I love you. How many times do I have to say it?”

“Twice was enough actually,” he mutters back, and you both see and hear that small amount of anxiety in his voice and body language. His words catches you though, making the impatient look on your face deepen.

“So you did hear me those times.”

He scoots, nodding, and sits so that he is leaning back against the armrest at the other end of the couch as well. Maybe now he is finally going to talk, to say what you have wanted for him to say for so long.

“Then how come you haven’t answered me yet?”  
“It’s not a question. What am I supposed to give as an answer? Fish? Twenty-four or something?”  
“Of course it’s a question. Most people expect some sort of reaction to come out of people when they all up and confess their love to them. Like in the movies, if you need a mental image.”  
“Thank you, I already know that. I’m not dumb.”

You raise both your eyebrows at this, like questioning this fact of his, but he is quick to let you know that, “Am not!”

“Whatever. You seem to get the point that I kinda sort of really would like a response, so what’s keeping you?”  
“Give a dude some time to think. You’re like an annoying kid asking if we’re there yet every minute to no end.”  
“If I had been driving around getting nowhere for two months, I don’t really think you’d have any right to judge.”  
“It’s been two months?”  
“Two months.”  
“Oh.”

You are taken aback by how surprised he honestly looks, like time had just passed him by since the first time you had told him of your feelings. Another silence falls over the two of you, though this time it is lighter and less choking. But you are getting sick and tired of waiting for him to speak up, so you do it for him. “Do you like me or not, John?”

The raven haired man squints at you, as though you already knew the answer. “Of course I do. You’re my best fri-”  
“Don’t even fucking go there you know what kind of like I’m talking about.”  
“Well excuse me.”

“Just fucking answer me already,” you sneer, voice growing in volume because John is playing tricks on you and trying to worm his way out of the situation. He had never liked tense moments. Even with your warning tone, he does not say anything, but he is pondering over it if the concentrated look on his face is anything to judge by. Another sigh passes your lips, and you bury your face in your hands, running them through your smooth, blond hair. Just about to confront John again, you hear him give you something close to an answer but not quiet.

“I don’t know.”  
“You don’t know?”  
“I don’t know…”

“God fucking dammit, John,” you sigh, but do not give up. Straightening your back, you lean forward just a little and hold your hands out as artifacts as you speak. “How do you think of me? Like, how do you see me? Feelings and all that cheesy shit.”

“Are you seriously asking me this?”  
“Yes.”  
“I’m not answering those, you dumbnut.”  
“Why not?”  
“I don’t know. I’m just not. It won’t help worth shit anyway. I just don’t know about my feelings for you.”

You take that in, running it through your mind to figure it out. And maybe, just maybe, you have got a plan. A small one, but maybe, just maybe, successful one. And risky. Without a word, you lean forward. He leans backwards, but he does not get far, the armrest preventing him both from going any further and fall right off of the couch. His face scrunches up in confusion when you do only keep getting closer. It is going slow, way too slow, so you decide to speed things up, and you kiss him.

Nothing more than lips on lips and, god, his lips are soft. You had expected them to be harsh, maybe even dry, but they are soft. Your eyes drift closed, concentrating entirely on the feeling and savoring every bit. You do not want to look, because you are not sure if you will like what you see. You do not want to see the way John’s face light up with everything but pleasure, or how he looks at you as if your head is about to explode any minute now. You do not want to see any of this. You only want to feel and let the rush of joy take over.

You cannot help but push more into it, moving to be on your knees and crawling closer to John as one of your hands reach for him. He stops you, though, grabs your wrist and with a tug he has disconnected your lips from one another. You already miss it, the warmth, no matter how lame that may sound. John’s face is tinted pink, staring at you with wide eyes, but you feel too high to notice the things he is trying to tell you just by the deep blue of his irises.

You just kissed John.

And you are moving in for a second try, despite the ways he is trying to keep you at a distance without knocking you to the floor. He might be bit of an asshole, but he is not that much of an asshole to kick and flip you right off of a couch and crash into a coffee table. Thanks to that, you capture his lips with your own again, wasting no time in taking in his bottom lip and sucking lightly. The sound he makes is not anything like the light moan you had expected - had wanted. He makes something close to a hiss, and you feel the vibrations of it when you press an open mouthed kiss upon him. You do realize that he is trying to get you off of him, but you keep telling yourself that just one more kiss will not hurt. They are all desperate and needy, dying to explore this whole new feeling.

You are straddling his hips by then, keeping him from flailing too badly, and you try to deepen the kiss, running your tongue over his lips and asking for entrance. When you do not get it, you are close to whining in disappointment. Your complaints are stilled and replaced with a gasp of pain when John manages to plant a kick between your legs, making you fall back to where you had been sitting before, and clutching painfully at your crotch. John might not have the heart to throw you off of your own couch, but he has no mind in kicking you straight in the balls it seemed.

“Holy shit, what the fuck was that for?!” you exclaim through gritted teeth so it becomes a muffled snarl.

“Says the one mouth raping me! That was just something called self defense.”  
“You do realize that you can kill a dude just by kicking him in the nuts, right?”  
“Yes.”  
“You fucking shit.”

He grimaces at you, humoring your pain and probably seeing it as revenge for what you just did. At least you did not cause him pain, but you are not about to argue about something like that. You suppose you might as well apologize, for when you come to your senses and realize your actions, it might not have been the best of plans.

“Sorry.”  
A frown is send your way.  
“Sorry, for kissing you.”

This time, John gives a simple nod, sinking down into the futon and pulling at the collar of his shirt to hide the flush spreading across his face. His lips are slightly swollen and match the color in his cheeks. And you wait for your apology, still in pain because, fuck, John really made the bells ring. Not a single word is coming from your friend though, continuing to watch TV and seeming incredibly interested in the commercials showing.

“Well..?”  
“Well what?” He turns his head to look at you, face still tugged half way under his shirt.  
“Oh no never mind the dude who might not be able to produce children ever again.”  
“I didn’t kick you that hard. You’re simply just a wimp.”  
“Ouch. First you kick my balls and now my feelings. When will this torture ever end.”

You do not realize how much you meant that last part. It does feel like torture, not the pain that is starting to fade, but how John is keeping you waiting with no lead to follow. You are okay with waiting. You had more than expected John being unable to give you an answer straight away. But you cannot wait forever, and every second passing by only reminds you of the time you could have spend holding John’s hand. Kissing his cheek. His lips. His forehead. Laugh with him. Get a smile from him. Hold him. Tell him how much you love him, and hear him return the favor. You do not think you can wait anymore. You need to know. Even if rejection is the closest thing to happen, you need it.

“John, I’m sorry. I know I’m a huge fucking douche strapped to a balloon of ass-holic helium, but please just… give me something.”  
“Something?”  
“Like an answer.”  
“It’s not even really a ques-”  
“John.”  
“Sorry. Okay, um. I guess I do owe you something like that. It’s just- I just don’t know? And no, you trying to eat my face is not helping me come any closer to a conclusion. In fact, it’s only making everything all the more hard to figure out.”  
“I just thought that maybe if I kissed you it would be just like in the chick flicks and you’d magically fall in love with me, and there would be panties dropping.”  
“Oh my god, are you serious? That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard. Even from you, and that’s saying something.”  
“Stop kicking my feelings, please.”

Somehow you gain the smallest laughter from him, and he even lets go on trying to hide his face. His smile is gorgeous. It affects you like the flu, and you realize that you have let out a light puff of a laugh as well. It confuses you how this is all going. One second, it is intense, the other you are doing something you should have kept to yourself for just a little longer, and the next you are laughing. You are laughing, and you are happy, and maybe you can wait around for an answer for just a little while longer and-

“I don’t love you.”

Nothing happens inside of you. It is all dull, a blur that you cannot make a clear image of. “What?”

“I don’t love you, Dave.” He says it with a quiet giggle, and he is smiling, faintly, and locking eyes with you. Why is he smiling? What is he happy about? What is going on, and what did he just say?

“I’m sorry… I really am.”

You make out that smile to be a nervous one, a smile of pity just for you. Air you did not know you were missing rushes through you as you suck in a hard breath. Your head becomes clear, and it is alarmed. You want to stop him from saying anymore, because it feels like he is digging a knife into your flesh. And that knife becomes alive, twitches and writhes around, and cutting whatever it touches.

“I do like you, don’t get me wrong here. You’re the best friend I could have ever wished for, even if you’re lame and embarrassing.” He laughs, again, but stops dead in his track when you don’t laugh with him. “I like you, Dave. I just don’t love you.”

“…Okay.”

You got your answer. You should be happy. You were prepared for this. But it hurts more than you expected it to. It hurts. Your heart is crumbling in on itself like was it made of paper. There is a knot forming in your throat, blocking your airways, and a slithering pain is flooding from there and throughout your veins. It burns, and you feel the fire eating you. Your chest is suddenly so heavy, like someone, John, decided as to take that knife from before and cut a long gap across your chest, and now the life is seeping out from that empty hole. There is no heart there, only a rock with sharp edges.

You stay seated on the couch, staring down at your hands and trying to remember John’s lips, because in that moment you had felt a fleeting happiness. You are quiet, and it is awkward. John can feel your hurt, though he does not know anything about the amounts of it. You hear him telling you he is going to leave. He tells you he is sorry. You wave him away, turn your head, and call at him that it is fine. You are fine. It is not like rejection is going to kill you. John repeats himself, saying that he is so sorry, and that he is sorry, and did he mention that he is sorry?

That is when you notice the wet feeling on your cheeks. You have started crying. You are crying in front of John as he stands in your doorway and about to take his leave. You feel horrible for letting him see you cry like this, because you knew that someday you were going to be okay, or so you hoped, just not right now. Right now it hurt. A lot.

You tell him to leave, you will catch each other another time, you just need a little while alone. He does as told for once, and you watch him go through that door from behind your shades. You are tired of seeing the world in all black. You gently place the sunglasses on the coffee table in front of you, rub your eyes, and bury yourself in the couch. You got your answer in the end, but...

Maybe you should have waited, if only to delay this very moment a little longer.


End file.
